


The Overflow

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Apple Pie, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Café owner Tamàs walks his dog near Bockboot reservoir when he stumbles upon a man with no memory. Welcoming the stranger to his home, Tamàs has no idea who he’s dealing with until two FBI agents blow into town, investigating a series of mysterious disappearances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Overflow

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers: up to and including 7.16 (none for unaired episodes)  
> standard disclaimers apply

**_Bockboot Reservoir_ ** **_, Kansas_ ** **__**

 

When Tamàs’ wife first got sick she bought a puppy, a cute little Dalmatian which she called Sally. Tamàs had a fight with Laura about that because you’re not supposed to surround yourself with pets when you go into chemo therapy.

“Don’t be silly,” Laura had told him while the pup was chewing on Tamàs’ Sunday loafers. “She’ll be my lucky charm.”

She’d been right, like always. Laura had beaten the cancer and she and Sal had grown old together. The two of them used to patter around the house, snore on the couch or take Tamàs for long walks around the reservoir. At some point Tamàs began to think of Sally as his wife’s guardian, a four-footed angel with polka dots and bad breath. Laura was gone two years now but Sal stuck by Tamàs’ side, a constant source of comfort and a memento of his wife. She also destroyed Tamàs’ shoes on a regular basis.   

That Saturday, Tamàs walked Sally by the side of Bockboot Lake, following the curve of the reservoir’s fence. He knew the trail by heart and his thoughts were on the café’s new coffee maker, a digital monstrosity he couldn’t get the hang of. He was sixty-one now, he shouldn’t have to wrestle with devil machines like that. As far as he was concerned, his old drip brewers had been perfectly serviceable but Anson had promised the new thingamabob would lighten the work load.

“Lighten the load my ass,” Tamàs muttered. He’d been running the _Hook & Sinker_ for twenty years and he’d never had to come in early just to study an instruction manual.

Tamàs was wondering if Boema Caffe and Ikea operated from the same corner of hell when Sally raised her nose and froze. A second later, the Dalmatian dashed off into the underbrush and left a surprised Tamàs to stare after her. Sal never bolted like that.

“Sal?” Tamàs called. “Hey, Sally!” He whistled but instead of coming back, Sally started barking down at the waterfront. Frowning, Tamàs pushed through the tangle of wild hedge and followed Sally’s barking through a hole in the fence.

Bockboot belonged to a system of lakes, all of them stretched out between untouched woodland. At this time of evening, the water reflected the darkening sky as well as the strip of salmon sunset above the trees. Tamàs made his way down the bank, his boots sinking into the increasingly sandy ground. After he’d squeezed through a narrow gap between two brambles he finally set eyes on his wayward dog:   Sal waited by the lakeshore, dancing around a man who lay facedown in the mud.

“Jesus,” Tamàs cursed, feeling like his heart dropped down to his shoes. Clutching Sal’s leash, he ran the remaining distance down the bank. By the time he got there, Sally stood with her front paws on the man’s back, barking even louder as the man’s hand clawed at the ground. Tamàs, who’d been convinced Sally had sniffed out a body, felt a stab of relief. He dropped to his knees, gave Sally a shove and turned the struggling man around. Christ but the fellow looked like a big fish had spewed him out on the shore: The lake had turned his black suit into a soaking mess, water dripped from his hair and mud covered his face. When he tried to get up, his elbows caved and now that he moved, he couldn’t stop coughing.

“Easy, easy,” Tamàs prattled and wrapped an arm around the man’s back so he wouldn’t drop back down into the mire. “Mary Mother of Christ, what happened to you?”

The man took a breath as if he wanted to answer but in the end he only retched up lake water. As Tamàs struggled to keep the fellow upright, Sally returned and slid under the stranger’s left arm, pressing into his side as if she, too, could hold him up.

 

: : :

 

Afterward, Tamàs never fully recalled how he managed to get the fellow up the bank and back to his pickup. Tamàs still packed some muscle but his back wasn’t what it used to be and the man’s weight, slight as it was, dragged at him. Tamàs had sweat through his shirt long before they hit the end of the trail. Sally was running circles around them, dashing ahead and coming back to make sure they followed. By the time the three of them reached Tamàs’ truck, the sky had turned dark and a cold wind was passing through the trees. With his arm around the stranger’s waist, Tamàs could feel every shiver that ran through the man’s lean frame. Tamàs bundled him into the truck, strapped him in and covered him with a blanket before he climbed behind the driver’s wheel. Sally squeezed in to sit between the two men. 

Tamàs, still shaken by the encounter, had to try twice before he managed to slot the key into the ignition. He steered the truck out onto the road as the stranger pulled the blanket tight around him and slumped against the door. He’d stopped coughing but he still hadn’t said a word. Maybe he was in shock and who wouldn’t be, washing up on a mud bank with a stomach full of water.

Jesus. Where did the guy come from? Had he been in an accident, had he—god, had he tried to drown himself? Tamàs clenched his mouth shut, swallowing the questions that wanted out. His passenger didn’t need a cross-examination, he needed medical attention.    

“Don’t worry,” Tamàs said, stealing glances at the man’s pale face to make sure he didn’t pass out. “The hospital’s only a few miles away.”

At this, the man sunk deeper into the seat and murmured something that Tamàs didn’t catch.

“What?” Tamàs asked. Outside, the lights of the truck passed over a sign that pointed the way to the abandoned Coleman factory. The county had declared the area as a fresh-water reservoir years ago, no-one worked or lived here anymore.  Tamàs didn’t pass any other cars on the road and it hit him what a lucky accident it was that he’d come upon this man in the first place. If Sal’s nose had failed with her age, if they had taken another trail--  

“No hospitals,” the man repeated, more clearly this time. “I’m all right.”

“All right!” Tamàs echoed and sped up his pickup. “I don’t think so. How in the world did you end up in that lake?”

A few seconds passed, then, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t—” Tamàs began but the stranger cut him short.

“I can’t remember,” he murmured. His voice sounded surprised, as if he’d just realized the gap in his memory.

Tamàs slanted him another look. The light from the dash barely reached the man’s face but it still showed off the contrast between his paper-white skin and the dark circles under his eyes. Maybe it was the manner in which Tamàs had found him but the fellow reminded him of passengers rescued off a shipwreck, his face slack and vacant as if he couldn’t comprehend that he’d made it to dry land after all.

“You can’t remember anything?” he asked. “What about how you got here?” Tamàs broke off and, following a hunch, added, “What about your name?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

“‘All right’,” Tamàs muttered and reached out to turn up the heating. “You need a hospital.”

He almost crashed the pickup when the stranger touched his elbow. Spooked, Tamàs turned and this time, the man beside him met his gaze.

“Please,” he said., his voice hoarse and strained. _Please. Just that one word._

Tamàs clenched his jaw. He knew he should take the fellow to the hospital anyway because everything else would be crazy but there was something in the frightened quality of the man’s plea that touched Tamàs’ heart. He couldn’t explain it but right then, putting the fellow’s mind at ease seemed more important than doing the sensible thing.

“You worry too much, _kedvesem_ ,” Laura had often told him. “Let your gut think instead of your brain sometime.”

Out of habit, Tamàs reached out and stroked a spot behind Sal’s ear, finding calm in the grizzled texture of her fur. When the exit to the county hospital came around, Tamàs passed it by and headed home instead.

Realizing where they were going, Sally let out a huff and settled down with her muzzle on the stranger’s thigh. The man hesitated, then slung his arm around Sal and closed his eyes.

 

 

**_Ten Months Later_ **

****

He went by the name of Jonah and he’d grown used to it, just as he’d grown used to the warped lock on the café’s back door. Clamping his newspaper under his arm, Jonah pulled the door toward him and turned the key, listened for the faint click of the tumblers before he pushed the door open with his shoulder. His fingertips found the lightswitch and the kitchen’s halogen lamps came on overhead.  

The kitchen of the _Hook & Sinker_ was small but well organized. A grill took up the south wall of the room, cupboards and two ovens lined the sides. The work table was an heirloom of Tamàs’ family, sixty inches of oakwood imported from Budapest. The stainless steel fridge was new but Tamàs still kept his father’s and grandmother’s tattered cookbooks lined up on a shelf.

Jonah dropped the newspaper on the table, went out into the dining area and flipped the lights on in there too. When the café’s neon sign flickered on in the window, Jonah looked up and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Garrett walking her Yorkie past the café. She lifted her hand in passing and he waved back. Cedar Springs was a small town and by now Jonah knew his fair share of locals and the locals knew him.

Tamàs had warned him that people would be suspicious of strangers, but after Tamàs introduced Jonah as his cousin’s son, the questions drained away fast. Maybe their curiosity also ran out of fuel because Jonah didn’t stick out: He dressed like the rest of them (jeans and t-shirt, a hooded sweater when it was chilly), he listened rather than talked, he had a beer or two at Mike’s bar on Fridays and walked Tamàs’ dog when Tamàs visited his children in Wichita. He rented an apartment on Cumberland Street and worked as a short order cook at the _Hook & Sinker_ café.

Tamàs had provided the job, just as he’d provided Jonah’s name. The latter was a private joke between them: Tamàs had never told anyone how they met and Jonah was grateful for it. He couldn’t say why but he didn’t like the thought of going to the police and tasking them to research his identity.

Jonah knew Tamàs thought he remembered plenty but chose to get back into life with a clean break. It wasn’t true. Jonah actually had no memory of his past. Of course he’d tried to recapture his former life but each time he’d wondered what had led to his almost-drowning, he came up blank. One of the first nights after Tamàs had taken him in, Jonah had dreamed of the lake, of whispering voices mingling with the swirling water and a deadly cold rising up to engulf his heart, his lungs. He’d woken up with a start, his skin as cold as ice and his pulse racing with fear. He hadn’t tried to remember anything after that.

In truth, his amnesia didn’t bother him and maybe that should give him pause. At times he felt… something. A vague sadness that came over him on mornings like this, when the fog drew in from the lakes and he arrived at the closed café for the breakfast shift. Jonah’s gaze passed over the empty booths, the laminated menus set out like props on a stage and the sight flooded him with the sensation of pieces missing, a strange lack he couldn’t explain.

These melancholy moments never lasted though; his days were busy enough to distract him.

Jonah switched on the radio and let the _High Plains_ morning program chase the silence from the room. He prepped the coffeemaker, went back into the kitchen and washed his hands. Tamàs had pasted pictures of the café’s New Year’s party above the sink, snapshots of patrons and staff: Bethany and Carol, who waited the tables, Anson who delivered their groceries, Tamàs and Jonah, who’d part-timed as a busboy-slash-dishwasher back then.   

After Tamàs had brought him to Cedar Springs, Jonah had stayed with him for two months, sleeping on Tamàs couch and helping out around his cafè. When the _Hook & Sinker’s_ cook left, Jonah asked if he could take over the job.

“Have you ever cooked a cheeseburger in your life?” Tamàs had asked him. Jonah had honestly replied that he couldn’t recall but he’d be willing to learn. Tamàs had been skeptical at first but it turned out that Jonah – while he didn’t seem to bring any experience as a cook – was very good at mimicry. His apprenticeship lasted one week during which Tamàs grilled burgers, baked pie and made soup. Jonah watched and then went on to copy Tamàs with accurate precision until he knew the moves by heart. He also took to reading cook books and watching _Good Eats._ Another two weeks passed and Tamàs deemed it safe to ‘take off the training wheels’. Jonah had been working shifts at the _Hook & Sinker_ kitchen ever since.

He dried off his hands, plucked his apron from a hook and tied it round his waist. The first customers would arrive in about an hour, which gave Jonah enough time to bake a few trays of raisin buns (Tamàs’ specialty), cut the mushrooms and leek for the soup of the day, have a cup of coffee and read the newspaper. Tamàs teased him for reading the local tab but Jonah liked the articles on baking contests and opening ceremonies. Besides, he enjoyed the crossword. Maisie Wilkins who wrote the newspaper’s crossword puzzles was a regular at the _Hook & Sinker _and a friend of Jonah’s. She insisted he was the only one who bothered to complete her brain teasers. Jonah never told her that he needed the _One Across_ dictionary to fill in answers to clues as simple as ‘headache queller’. He did well on the Latin though.

Per Maisie’s request, Jonah put two raisin buns aside for her each morning, a routine she appreciated because she enjoyed sleeping in. Much to the annoyance of her neighbor Mrs. Evelyn Simpson, who liked neither crosswords nor raisins but loved chicken pie.

Jonah went to the fridge and pulled out the dough he’d prepared last night. Already he knew who’d walk into the café first (George Hanlon), who would order scrambled eggs (Tripp from the hardware store) and who preferred them sunny side up (the Kaminski sisters). After ten months, Jonah didn’t have to concentrate to remember their habits anymore; they were as familiar to him as the pattern of the wallpaper in his apartment. If he still felt like a bystander, someone who brushed other people’s lives but never really felt them touched him, he could live with that. He assumed it was his nature.

 

: : :

 

That day, Maisie walked in at half past eleven and squeezed into a booth with Mable and Irene Kaminski. The café was more crowded than usual, most of the tables taken up by a group of cyclists fresh off the _Biking Across Kansas_ tour. Jonah pulled a plate with two raisin buns from the lukewarm oven and pushed it through the service hatch for Bethany.

“Get them to Maisie please?”

“Sure thing,” Bethany said and handed him two order slips. “The ladies in the corner all want the farmer’s salad, dressing on the side.” She smiled. “Meg Ryan wannabes.”

“Meg Ryan?” Jonah asked as he took the slips.

Bethany halted with her hand on Maisie’s plate. “Seriously,” she said. “Do you even own a TV?”

“Meg Ryan’s an actress?” Jonah ventured as he reached for a carton of milk.

“I don’t believe you!” Bethany laughed. She leaned on the counter in front of the hatch and winked. “Guess I need to stay and continue your education.”

Jonah smiled back at her. “Please, no.”

Five weeks ago, Bethany had celebrated her twenty-first birthday at the _Hook & Sinker_. She’d wanted to spend a night watching her favorite movies so Tamàs had organized a TV and they’d marathoned romantic comedies like _P.S. I love you_ and twenty-something dresses. Tamàs had said it was a good thing that Bethany was going to leave for college otherwise he would’ve had to fire her on account of bad taste.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Bethany teased Jonah and pushed away from the counter. She was a short, strawberry blonde girl with a fondness for earrings in the shape of fruit. Cherries were the current craze, as Jonah understood. When Bethany moved, something flashed at the hollow of her throat and Jonah saw that she was also wearing a necklace today. The kitchen’s light caught on the pendant and Jonah recognized a wire angel with a glass bead for a head. It was a stylized thing with dainty wings like a butterfly’s. Bethany must’ve caught his gaze because she looked down and lifted the pendant between two fingers.

“You like it?” she asked. “My sister gave it to me because of, you know, what happened with the Bauer girl.”

Jonah knew. Even if he hadn’t read about the girl in the paper, Maggie Bauer’s disappearance had been the talk of the town for the last two weeks. Jonah had never met the girl in person but he knew Bethany had, probably on one of the town kids’ lakeside parties.

“Dee said it would protect me,” Bethany said and tucked the pendant back into her blouse with a blush rising to her cheeks. “You think that’s silly?”

“No,” Jonah said. He realized he was frowning and smoothed his face. “No, not at all.”

“Tell you the truth,” Bethany admitted. “It makes me feel safer.” She picked up the raisin buns and looked at him. “Do you think they’ll find Maggie?”

“I hope so,” Jonah said and he meant it. As he mixed milk and eggs for the French toast, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Maggie wouldn’t come home. _There are things in the dark_ , he thought and frowned again. _Things waiting to eat you whole._

He jumped at his own morbidity, his fingers digging into the milk carton. Why would he even come up with something like that?

Jonah shot a look through the hatch, watched Bethany place the raisin buns on Maisie’s table with a smile and hoped her pendant would live up to its promise.

 

: : :

 

Mike’s bar was on the corner of Main Street and Riverview, only a couple of houses down from the _Hook & Sinker_. A few years ago, Mike had painted the bar’s name on the red brick wall that faced the highway, hoping to get the tourists’ attention. By now the paint was paling and Mike’s patrons were still ninety percent locals who liked the place well enough to ignore the stale peanuts and the holes in the Linoleum. 

As the sun set outside, Jonah sat at one of the tables and watched the weather forecast on the TV above the bar. The rain radar was just switching to the weekend weather when Brian came in and joined him.

“Hey, man, sorry I’m late,” he said and slid into the chair opposite Jonah. He signaled Mike for a beer and took off his glasses to clean them. He didn’t wear a jacket, maybe because he didn’t bring one or because he forgot it at his workplace again. His polo shirt hung open at the collar and when Brian turned, Jonah saw a patch of sweat between his shoulder-blades. Catching Jonah’s gaze, Brian grimaced.

“Air conditioning’s fritzing again,” he explained. “I tried to keep up a cross breeze but you can’t get any fresh air into that place. Too many shelves.”

“Too much dust,” Jonah added and Brian’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“Customer criticism?” he asked. His hand moved to the bowl of peanuts automatically, then drew back as Brian remembered where he was.

It had become a ritual, the two of them getting together for a Friday night beer. They’d met at the town’s library, a place Jonah visited often since his knowledge of literature seemed about as patchy as his movie cred. Brian, who ran the place, supplied Jonah with recommendations and brought books to the café if Jonah didn’t have the time to stop by. He hadn’t been a regular when Jonah started at the _Hook & Sinker_ but these days he ate his lunch there three days a week.

“Are you okay?” Jonah asked, noticing the flush of Brian’s cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian said and shoved his glasses back on his nose. “Just a bit rattled.” Mike brought him a Heineken and Brian raised the bottle, hesitating. “Shit, I guess I’ve just been questioned by the FBI.”

“The FBI?” Jonah echoed and took a sip of his own beer.

“Seems so,” Brian said. “And they actually wear black suits. Who’d have thought.” He shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line. “They’re here because of the Bauer girl.”

“That makes sense,” Jonah supplied. Brian let out a huff and swallowed a mouthful of Heineken.

“What did they want to know?” Jonah asked.

Brian shrugged. “Same thing as the Sheriff. When she left, if I saw which way she went.” 

Jonah nodded. Everyone knew the library was the last place Maggie had been seen at before she vanished. It kept troubling Brian because he’d checked out her books, he’d even told her to get home safely. _It’s just something you say_ , Brian had admitted to Jonah when they first talked about it. _Small town like this, who’d think she’d actually be in any danger?_

“I can’t help thinking,” Brian muttered. “If I’d known…”

“You couldn’t have,” Jonah cut in, aware that he’d said something along these lines every time they discussed the Bauer girl. He wished he could think of something more adequate. 

“Doesn’t make it easier,” Brian said but then he looked up and attempted a smile. “Those FBI guys were two characters, I can tell you that. One of them was a real hardcase, gave me the third degree and all that. Shit, I almost confessed that I once nicked my sister’s pocket money just to get him off my back.” Brian’s smile widened. “He was kind of an asshole, actually. His partner was damn handsome though.” He took another swig from his beer and his gaze flicked up to the TV. 

“Handsome how?” Jonah wanted to know. At this, Brian’s breath hitched and he blushed again, not in a big way, but enough so Jonah noticed. Jonah inclined his head, bemused by Brian’s reaction. He’d thought his question had been harmless.

“Oh I don’t know,” Brian hedged. “He was tall, I guess. Had an intelligent face. Like—” He stopped mid-sentence and shot Jonah a startled look before he clamped his mouth shut.  

“Like me?” Jonah suggested because it seemed that was the comparison Brian had wanted to make.

Brian’s eyes drifted back to the TV but his whole body tensed. “I guess,” he muttered, lacing his fingers so tightly around the bottle of Heineken the tendons showed on his lower arms.

Watching him, Jonah tried to pinpoint how he’d derailed their conversation. Sometimes he lacked social awareness as well as tact. Jonah never had much luck identifying his blunders, though, so he asked Brian outright. “Are you embarrassed because I figured out you like me or because you don’t want it known you’re gay?”

He hadn’t raised his voice but Brian jumped all the same, his eyes widening at the question. He opened his mouth, pulled in a breath and gave up all pretence of watching TV.

“I…,” Brian began and stared at Jonah. “A bit of both?” he said eventually and some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

“Fair enough.” Jonah nodded and Brian’s mouth twitched into a smile. He breathed out a shaky laugh and raised his beer to his mouth.

“You’re weird, you know that?”

Jonah shrugged and emptied his beer. He knew. It was one of the few things he understood about himself. He was too direct, clueless and curios about the wrong things. Other people seemed different, more versed in the art of making small talk. For one, they had the sense to be ashamed when they caught themselves asking intimate questions. Jonah only felt mildly chagrined and confused.

Up at the bar, someone yelled at Mike to turn up the TV. The Royals were on and the game made for a good change of topic, one that Brian seemed eager to get into.

 

: : :

 

Brian dropped Jonah off at his place like every Friday night. They lived only a couple of streets apart, it made sense to walk together. Jonah didn’t own a car and didn’t care, he enjoyed using his legs. His preference seemed to have rubbed off on Brian: When they’d first started meeting, Brian had driven home in his car but as their friendship progressed, he’d took to joining Jonah on his nightly walks home. Depending on how many beers they’d had, they’d talk all the way, discussing anything from books they’d read to the carbon dating of Mike’s peanuts. That night Brian was unusually close-mouthed, though.

They slowed when they reached the auto repair shop on Cumberland and the flight of stairs that led up to Jonah’s apartment. There’d been two flats on offer when Jonah had scouted for a place, one with a river view, the other above the garage. Jonah went for the latter because he liked the smell of engine grease. Some mornings he opened the window just so he could hear the noise from the workshop, the clang of tools on metal and the music from the radio.

“Does it bother you?” Brian asked. Jonah raised a brow, thinking at first that Brian referred to the garage.

“You know.” Brian flapped a hand and it clicked; they were back at Jonah’s faux pas. Again, the question might refer to Brian liking him or to his sexual orientation. No matter this time, because the answer was the same either way.

“No,” Jonah said. He understood that he’d exposed a secret Brian wouldn’t have volunteered on his own, so he hoped his answer would put Brian at ease. Maybe it did. Jonah would have liked to ask if they were good but he didn’t want to alienate Brian a second time tonight.

“Okay,” Brian said and perhaps he sounded a little relieved. He shifted his stance as if he wanted to step closer, then appeared to change his mind. He seemed to search Jonah’s face for some kind of reaction. When none came, Brian smiled and shoved his hands into his pockets. “See you around, then.”

“Yeah,” Jonah agreed. He turned his keys in his hand, absently running his thumb over the keyring as Brian walked away. Belatedly it came to him that he could’ve asked Brian to come up to his place. Would he have liked that?

Standing at the foot of the staircase, Jonah waited for a change inside him, a trickle of excitement at the thought of getting Brian into bed. They liked each other well enough and it might have been a nice change to jacking off alone under the shower. Jonah looked on as Brian rounded a corner and disappeared but the urge to call him back never came.  

Maybe it was just that he wasn’t all that attracted, Jonah thought as he climbed the stairs. It was easier to believe that than to wonder if something in his past had leeched his capacity to be excited about anything at all.

 

: : :

 

“Have you heard?” Tamàs asked. It was Wednesday and Jonah had just arrived in the café’s kitchen for the afternoon shift. Two cherry pies were cooling on the work table, the scent of warm pie crust and cinnamon filling the air.

“Heard what?” Jonah asked, tying his apron and pulling a baseball cap from the shelf above the sink. Tamàs leaned on the counter in front of the hatch, much like Bethany had the day before. He’d shoved his glasses up on his graying hair and his bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. Maisie always said Tamàs reminded her of Anthony Quinn, for once an actor Jonah knew. He’d seen _Zorba the Greek_.

“Another kid’s gone missing,” Tamàs said.

The news stopped Jonah dead in his tracks. He had a brief flash of Bethany with her dimpled smile and the angel figurine on her necklace. His gaze flicked to the hook where the waitresses hung their jackets before he remembered Bethany didn’t work on Wednesdays.

At home. She had to be at home.

“Who?” Jonah asked, as his stomach twisted into a hard knot.

“Tim Wheeler,” Tamàs answered and shook his head. “He’s one of those skateboard kids down at Kelley Park.”

The name didn’t ring a bell but the clench of Jonah’s stomach didn’t ease, how could it. Two weeks ago, Cedar Springs had been a peaceful, somewhat boring country town. Now two teenagers had disappeared. No-one instituted any new rules, not officially, but parents picked up their children from school instead of letting them take the bus. Little league practice in the park had been cancelled. It felt like a shadow was closing in on the township, some formless threat that crawled out of the plains that surrounded the shops and homes and seeped into the backstreets. Already the townspeople walked around with closed, suspicious faces and a new quickness to their stride.

“I don’t understand,” Tamàs said, “what kind of person would go after kids?”

“Maybe it’s not a person,” Jonah muttered before he could stop himself.

“What did you say?” Tamàs looked up in surprise.

“Nothing,” Jonah said. He smoothed the baseball cap onto his head with steady hands but his shoulders tensed. _There are things in the dark_. “It’s bad, whatever’s happening.”

“ _Igen_ ,” Tamàs agreed. “I hope they stop it soon.”

He was going to say more but before he could, the café’s front door opened and two customers walked in. Tamàs half-turned to look at them before he pushed away from the counter. Wednesdays he waited the tables himself.

“I wish those kids would come back home,” Tamàs said. “For their parents’ sake as much as their own.” He picked up two mugs and the coffee urn but the distant look on his face betrayed that his thoughts were elsewhere. 

“Are you thinking of Marie?” Jonah asked. He hadn’t met Tamàs’ daughter yet but there were plenty of pictures of her and her family at Tamàs’ house. Jonah especially liked one snapshot of Tamàs with his grandchildren. It must’ve been taken during the summer because the kids’ faces were teeming with freckles. The picture showed Luke perching on his grandfather’s shoulders and Libby wrapping her arms around Tamàs leg.

Tamàs gave a short nod. “I’d never thought I’d say this but right now I’m glad Marie moved away. If the little ones were here right now … oh, I would never sleep.”

He shook his head again and moved off. Jonah watched him cross the room, confused by the tight clench of his muscles, the tension in his body that wouldn’t ease. Yes, Tamàs’s bad news troubled him but his physical reaction seemed out of proportion. He looked back at the kitchen door, overcome by the urge to leave, to seek out the places where the kids had been seen last.

Why couldn’t he shake the suspicion that they were missing an important detail about the teenagers’ disappearances? The answer seemed to hover just out of reach and Jonah bit his lip in frustration. Who did he think he was? Dick Tracy in a trenchcoat? What a stupid notion.

Jonah gave his head a shake and the weird vibe that had taken a hold of him passed. Switching over into cook-mode, he picked up the cherry pies and shoved them through the hatch.

Across the café, Tamàs moved away from the table nearest the window and cleared the view on the two men who’d entered the _Hook & Sinker_. They were both wearing suits but one of them had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Jonah hesitated behind the hatch, taking in their black ties and white shirts. These had to be the FBI agents Brian had met the other day. Curious, Jonah tried to get a closer look but their faces were backlit and half turned away. As they talked, the agent in the shirtsleeves picked up the salt-shaker and rolled it absently between his fingers. The hardcase, Jonah assumed, because his partner seemed to be the tall one.

A few seconds later, Tamàs returned with the first orders and Jonah retreated deeper into the kitchen to fire up the grill.

 

: : :

 

Usually the _Hook & Sinker_ closed at nine p.m. but that night people seemed reluctant to leave. Maisie, Tripp and a couple other locals had pushed two tables together and kept talking, not just about the missing kids but about all kinds of things, as if they wanted to preserve a bubble of community, a sense of togetherness and safety while the sun set outside. After a while, Tamàs and Jonah joined them, sharing out coffee and the last slices of cherry pie. Sally, who’d been dozing in her basket all afternoon, shuffled over to curl up beneath the table.

When Maisie and the others left at half past eleven, Tamàs locked up and started cleaning up in the front. Back in the kitchen, Jonah turned up the radio and scrubbed the grill listening to the tunes of Fleetwood Mac and Pink Floyd.

It got past one before Tamàs, Sally and Jonah stepped out the back door into a warm, fragrant night. Town service had mowed the lawn in Kelley Park and a breeze carried the scent of cut grass up the street. Sal raised her head, eyes alert and tail up as if she was only now waking up.

“You want a ride?” Tamàs asked as he fished his car keys out of his back pocket.

“Thanks,” Jonah answered and shoved his hands in his pockets. “But I think I’ll walk.”

“Are you sure?” Tamàs face left no doubt that he didn’t like the idea. He opened the driver’s door of his truck then seemed to think of something. “Hey, why don’t you take Sal?” He bent down and patted the dog’s neck. “What do you say girl? You want to chaperon our boy here?”

Jonah smiled. He wouldn’t mind putting Sally up for the night; he liked listening to her huffs and rumbling snores. Tamàs didn’t know but Jonah even allowed her to sleep in his bed, a blatant transgression of the don’t-spoil-her rule.

Tonight, however, Sal didn’t seem in a walking mood. She took one look down the street, one look at the open pickup and hopped into the truck’s cabin. Once up on the seat, she turned around, plopped down and glanced at Jonah with apologetic puppy eyes.

“You lazy mutt,” Tamàs scolded but his voice was so soft and fond he intimidated no-one, least of all Sal. Jonah chuckled.

“It’s okay,” he assured Tamàs. “You take the old lady home.”

Tamàs shook his head. “Yeah, now that she’s had her beauty sleep I bet she’ll be up in four hours, whining for her walkies.” He climbed into the driver’s seat, making the old springs creak. He’d already pulled the door half to when he hesitated again.

“It’s just a ten minute walk,” Jonah said and put his hand on the pickup’s open window.

“Okay,” Tamàs relented. “But be careful, all right? No stopping on the way.”

“I promise,” Jonah said and closed the truck’s door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

: : :

 

On any other night, Jonah would’ve taken the long way round to clear his head but in light of his promise he picked the shortest route and followed Main Street down to Riverview. Earlier in the year, the town council had decided to shut off the street lamps at one a.m. to conserve energy. Since last week, the lamps were on till four and the deputy sheriff’s car patrolled downtown every two hours.

Jonah kept to the sidewalk, listening to the sound of his shoes on the concrete and the buzz of the insects tumbling around the lampshades. On the far side of the street, shop-fronts stood dark and quiet. To the left, the trees of Kelley Park rustled softly in the wind.

Trailing the low wall that marked the edge of the park grounds, Jonah caught another whiff of mowed lawn. Beneath the green scent of grass, however, he also noticed something else, a faint smell of rot and brown, pulpy apples. It surprised him enough to slow his steps.

On the corner of Riverview and Cumberland, a footpath led into the Kelley commons, its gentle curve disappearing into the shadows of rhododendron bushes and cedar trees. Unlike the streets, the park wasn’t lit and if the smell hadn’t brought Jonah up short, he would never have noticed the shoe on the path.

Slowly, Jonah walked into the park, thinking until the last second that the dark lump on the ground might be a stone or a coke can even though in the deep corners of his mind, he already knew better. He went down on one knee and picked up the shoe, turning it over in his hand.

It was a loafer made of black-and-white checkered canvas with a chuffed tip and a rubber sole. The kind of shoe Jonah had seen on the skater kids at the half-pipe. Reaching for his cellphone, Jonah swiped his gaze over the surrounding lawns. His hands didn’t shake, his breath didn’t hitch, but his heart beat a little faster.

Inside the park’s walls, the stench of fruit gone bad was even stronger, wafting up from the picnic lawn. Oddly enough, Jonah flashed back to Tamàs and the worry on his face as they said goodbye. If Tamàs were here, he’d tell Jonah to back the hell out and call the sheriff. Sure enough Jonah’s hand rested on his phone, thumbing its outline through the pocket of his jeans, but for some reason he hesitated to make the call. Once again he felt a faint quiver in his limbs, a ripple of adrenaline like electricity. He didn’t hear a sound and yet he cocked his head, convinced that someone called him.

 _No stopping on the way_ , Tamàs words echoed in his head.

Jonah took one last look at the brightly lit street, then he got to his feet and followed the death smell into the park.

 

: : :

 

In daylight, Kelley Park was an airy and friendly place but in the dark, the trees seemed to stand closer together, the bushes loomed higher and the silence amplified each sound. At first, Jonah only heard the creak of branches and the whisper of leaves but when he closed in on the park’s center, he noticed other noises too, hoarse grunts and a curious, wet, ripping sound. Not a pleasant soundtrack but Jonah’s feet carried him onward all the same. He still clutched the shoe, like a talisman or a divining rod.

By the time he reached the picnic area, Jonah’s eyes had grown used to the feeble moonlight but what he saw still didn’t make any sense. Standing on the soft, recently trimmed lawn Jonah watched a man tall as a pole choke the life out of Brian’s hardcase FBI agent. The Fed had been backed against a tree, one of the big cedars that normally cast its shadow across picnic blankets. Only a couple of meters separated Jonah from the two men and the agent’s white shirt shone like a signal flag.

At first, Jonah couldn’t even understand why the agent didn’t break free because the thug who held him up didn’t look strong at all. His legs were long and spindly and so where his arms and yet he’d pinned the Fed to the cedar tree, lifting him clean off the ground. It was only then that Jonah registered the taller man’s bulging shoulders, the sharp outline of his spine that moved under his shirt like a living thing.

The agent still had his sleeves rolled up over his elbows and he’d dug his fingers into the wrist of his attacker. His heels scraped against the tree as he struggled to break the hold on his neck. The fight was weirdly silent, accentuated only by the soft rustle of clothes and the strangulated moans of the agent, his desperate attempts to breathe.

Jonah didn’t think, drew back his arm and pitched the loafer against the thug’s head as hard as he could. He didn’t even wait until the shoe hit, just swept a branch off the ground and charged.

The instant his hand closed around the branch, Jonah’s mind shut off and his body took over, his feet barely touching the ground, his moves fluid and secure as he swung the branch like a baseball bat. The shoe hadn’t impressed the thug, but the blow to the small of its back got its attention. He whipped around with a snarl and Jonah had one split second of relief when the guy dropped the FBI agent. Then he saw the tall man’s face.

He might have looked like a human, once, but the skin he had worn had split in several places, revealing dark, glistening ridges and scales underneath. Claws had broken through his hands like scissors through gloves. His eyes were the worst part, though, lambent and slit like a reptile’s, with membranous second lids flicking back and forth.

Once again, Jonah didn’t hesitate. He avoided the swipe of the creature’s arm and ducked under the talons to smack the branch against the creature’s midriff. Going from the noise, the skin he hit popped like a grape and it must’ve hurt, too, because the creature cried out in a high, gurgling voice. It struck out with both hands, fast as a snake this time, and Jonah only escaped by a whisker. He felt the creature’s claws cut past him, inches away from his face as he jumped back. In a flash of clarity Jonah thought that he ought to be quicker, then the creature rushed at him in a cloud of foul air. Jonah swerved to the left but his heels fetched up against a root and sent him sprawling. He hit the ground hard and the creature dived after him, its left claw raised, its mouth opening wide to reveal two rows of sharp teeth.

Jonah had just time to whip up the branch like a shield when a hoarse call stopped the monster in its tracks.

“Hey!” 

Eyes flaring yellow, the creature whirled around and faced the FBI agent who seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere. Jonah caught a sliver of light on metal, then the agent rammed a knife into the creature’s chest. It was a square hit but the creature didn’t falter; its arm whipcracked against the agent’s head and flung him impossibly high into the air.

Jonah didn’t see where the agent came down, his eyes fixed on the creature’s heaving back. It lumbered a few steps after the Fed before it finally folded in on itself and crumbled to the ground.

Letting out the breathe he’d held, Jonah climbed to his feet. Pain shot through his back as he pushed away from the cedar roots but Jonah hardly paid it any mind. His brain still worked as if it had been plugged free from emotion, informing him in a neutral voice that what he’d just taken part in was highly unusual. He still had enough common sense, though, to raise his impromptu weapon. Branch in hand, Jonah approached the hopefully dead creature. 

The thing that could have crawled out of a Lovecraft novel sprawled on its belly, the stench of decay hanging over it like a mist. Beneath its t-shirt, the spine was still twitching feebly but the rest of its body lay stiff and motionless.

 _Highly unusual_ , Jonah echoed and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. He looked around, still with that odd sense of detachment until his gaze lit on the FBI agent.

The guy had crashed into one of the rhododendron bushes, his legs sprawling on the lawn, his upper body caught in the branches. He didn’t move any more than the creature and his stillness gave Jonah a start, shaking him up a lot more than the sight of the man-sized lizard. The branch slipped from his fingers and he broke into a run, a lump of dread lodging in his throat like a stone. He dropped to his knees, brushed away a batch of leaves and grabbed the agent by the front of his shirt. The man still breathed, much to Jonah’s relief. When Jonah touched him, he groaned and tried to get up but his sleeves caught on the branches and his moves seemed heavy and sluggish.

Slipping his hands under the agent’s arms, Jonah extracted him from the underbrush as carefully as if he was a bird caught in barbed wire. Unlike a bird, however, the guy was no featherweight and the muscles in Jonah’s back twanged sharply as he pulled the agent free off the shrub and out on the lawn. There, the agent lay on his back, his eyes fluttering open and focusing on Jonah’s face. He frowned, his hand fumbling for Jonah’s arm and clutching at his jacket’s sleeve.

“You’re kidding me,” he muttered.

“Don’t move,” Jonah said and pulled his cell-phone out of his jeans. Even in the moonlight he could see the dark patches on the agent’s shirt, the blood speckling the fabric where the creature’s claws had dug into his shoulder. Impossible to tell where else he might be hurt, but the drugged slowness of his movements didn’t bode well.

Jonah bit his lip and flipped open his phone. His finger was already on the first button when the agent grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he slurred.

“Dialing nine-one-one,” Jonah said and the man’s grip tightened.

“Hell, no,” he rasped, struggled to sit up and dropped back down again. “No hospitals.” He murmured something else but Jonah only caught the whispered, “son of a bitch,” at the end of it. No, it didn’t bode well at all.

Jonah pressed nine, ready to ignore the agent’s request until he recalled that back at the reservoir he’d asked Tamàs for the same thing. _No hospitals_. To this day Jonah couldn’t explain why this had been so important to him, why the thought of the ER reception desk had filled him with dread.  But inexplicable or not, Jonah recognized a similar urgency in the agent’s protest and he found he didn’t want to go against the man’s wishes.

Jonah looked down at the agent’s fingertips that still rested lightly against his elbow. Before he knew what he was doing, he reached down and closed his hand around the man’s bare lower arm, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tremor that shook his body at Jonah’s touch. A surge of protectiveness washed through Jonah, gripping him with a force he hadn’t experienced before. Giving the agent’s arm a brief squeeze, Jonah put the phone back in his pocket. He’d done so many foolish, reckless things tonight, one more mistake wouldn’t tip the balance.

“Can you get up?” he asked.

“I can dance the fucking mambo,” the agent mumbled but he tried, levered his torso off the ground and pushed with his hands flat on the lawn. Jonah slipped his arm around the man’s back and repeated what Tamàs had told him eight months ago.

“It’s all right, come on. I got you.”

 

: : :

 

By the time they reached Jonah’s apartment, the Fed could barely walk. Jonah dragged him up the stairs and through the door, his arm hooked around the man’s waist. Once inside, Jonah maneuvered the agent across the kitchen into his bedroom, knocking over a chair and a stack of books on their way. He sat the agent down on his bed, helped him get his legs up on the mattress.

Switching on the bedside lamp, Jonah got a first good look at the damage the creature had done. A set of nasty scratches darkened the Fed’s forehead just above his brow but the rest of his face was almost gray, his lips pale and bloodless. Jonah brought in a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a tea-towel and placed them gently against the side of the agent’s head.

“Hold this.” Jonah guided the agent’s hand to the makeshift cold pack, making sure he’d keep it in place before he left to fetch the first aid kit from the bathroom.

No-one would ever get lost in Jonah’s apartment; it just had the one bedroom, the kitchen and the bath. Sometimes Jonah wished he had more space and bigger windows but tonight he was grateful for the close quarters. It took him no more than a few strides to reach the small mirror cabinet where he stowed his emergency box.

When he came back, the agent was leaning against one of Jonah’s pillows, his eyes half-closed, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. With a twinge of worry, Jonah put the first aid kit on his bedside locker and hoped he would be up for this. He’d treated a few kitchen injuries but never anything more complex than a cut finger.

Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he reached out and unbuttoned the agent’s shirt. Leaning closer, Jonah peeled the bloodied fabric off the man’s shoulder, revealing the pinpricked holes the creature’s claws had dug into the man’s flesh. Jonah was no expert but the wound didn’t look all that deep to him. The bleeding had already stopped, that had to be a good sign. He pulled the bedside lamp closer and examined the bloodied imprint, finding that the thumb-claw had pierced the man’s chest a few inches above a runic tattoo. Intrigued, Jonah almost touched the ink’s outline, the sharp angles of the pentagram. At the last second he redirected his hand to the first aid kit but his mouth had turned dry and his gaze kept slipping back to the black lines on smooth skin. There was an older scar under the man’s nipple, a small crescent that was oddly beautiful to Jonah’s eyes.

Swallowing, Jonah pulled a couple of antiseptic wads from the kit and started cleaning the shoulder injury. The agent didn’t twitch a muscle, not even when Jonah dabbed his wound with iodine. He either had a very high pain threshold or he was too dazed to feel anything. Jonah didn’t much like the second option. A blow to the head could knock a person out, but what if something else was wrong? Something Jonah had no hope of diagnosing?

The next time he looked up, the agent was watching him with clouded eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Anesthetic,” he said, the words coming slow and stilted. “In the claws.”

“Permanent?” Jonah asked, his stomach giving a nervous flutter.

“’S hope not.”

Not exactly the reassurance he’d been angling for, Jonah thought and finished with the iodine. “I still think you should go to the ER.”

“Nuh.” The agent’s eyes drifted shut and his head sunk back against the pillow. He still held on to the peas. “Just heal me.”

Jonah let out a small huff. “Would that I could,” he said and screwed the cap back onto the bottle of iodine. Stretching for the first aid kit, he murmured, “If you were a pie crust I’d know exactly how to fix you.”

He was turning back with a bandage in his hand when the agent shot forward and pushed him off the bed. Jonah hit the floor with a surprised ‘oomph’, completely at a loss as the agent grabbed the front of his t-shirt and slammed him into the bedside locker.

“Who are you?” he growled, pressing the knuckles of his fist against the hollow of Jonah’s throat. 

Jonah’s heart thudded hard in his chest, his whole body had gone rigid with shock. He could have given so many answers, ranging from ‘I’m a short-order cook’ to ‘I’m the guy who fucking saved you’ but in the end he could only bring out the truth.

“I don’t know.”

He could see the agent take a breath, watched the muscles in his arm quiver but the man didn’t release his hold, staring at Jonah as if he wanted to take him apart. It wasn’t anger in his eyes though, Jonah realized, it was pain, some deep and overwhelming grief that fought its way to the surface. Jonah sucked in a breath, feeling for all the world as if someone had reached a hand around his heart and squeezed.

For a long minute, the two of them stared at each other, then the agent released his grip on Jonah’s shirt. He slumped forward, the fingers of his left hand clenching on the edge of the mattress. Somehow he managed to heave himself back up on the bed, his hand fumbling for his injured shoulder.

Jonah sat still until the agent came to rest on his back. Even then he waited another few seconds, watching the agent’s chest rise and fall with ragged breaths before he pushed off the floor. By the time Jonah had regained his feet, the agent seemed to be out of it, his breathing had evened out and his eyes were closed. Jonah took a step closer, his pulse still hammering at the side of his throat.

 _Who are you?_ The words echoed in Jonah’s head and he would’ve liked nothing more than to return the question.

 _Who are_ you?

He took another breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat and retook his seat on the edge of the bed. The bedside lamp had toppled over in their tussle and Jonah set it upright again, letting the light slip back over the agent’s shoulder, the side of his face. He didn’t look like a hardcase now; with the shadows beneath his eyes and the limp splay of his fingers on his chest he only looked hurt and tired. Washed up in Jonah’s bed much like Jonah had washed up on the shore of Bootbock lake.

 

: : :

 

The next morning, Jonah woke up with his legs folded onto the chair and his spine twisted against the backrest. It was already light outside and the sound of a power screwdriver drifted in through the crack in the window.  Rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, Jonah uncurled his body and winced. Needles of pain fired up his back and his left shoulder ached with every move. Obviously he hadn’t done his body any favors, first falling onto a tangle of roots and then sleeping in a spendthrift, worn-out chair. He probably had the imprint of a chair spring on his butt.

Carefully rotating his maltreated shoulder, Jonah checked on the man in his bed. The FBI agent was still fast asleep, the side of his face mushed against the pillow and his short hair sticking up at the back of his head. Definitely not a hardcase, Jonah thought and smiled. After a moment’s consideration, he set a pile of clean clothes on the foot of the bed and tiptoed out of the room.

 

: : :

 

One hot shower later, Jonah’s back felt a little less mangled. He had a towel slung around his shoulder and one hand on the knob of the bathroom door when he heard a male voice in the next room. Jonah eased the door open and saw the agent standing by the foot of the bed with a phone at his ear. Jonah’s phone. He must’ve picked it off the bedside locker.

Probably calling in his status, Jonah thought. The agent spoke softly but Jonah caught a few snatches of the conversation, mainly the words “not okay” and “freaking out”. Jonah thought back to last night and frowned. For some reason, he’d assumed the agent had been familiar with the thing he’d fought. How else would he’ve known where to stab the knife? But perhaps he’d got it wrong.

When the agent pressed a hand over his eyes, Jonah backed away and left the bathroom through the second door, deciding to allow the agent his privacy.

 

: : :

 

For a cook, Jonah kept his fridge sparsely stocked. It had never bothered him before because he ate most of his meals at the café anyway but that morning he worried about the meager selection of food. He didn’t even have any eggs, just butter and a jar of orange marmalade. In the end he decided to start with the coffee and see how far he would get with buttered toast.

He was sipping on his first cup, waiting for the bread to toast when the FBI agent slipped into the kitchen. He still wore his suit pants but he’d put on the shirt Jonah had laid out for him, a pale blue cotton tee with two palmtrees printed in front. It suited him better than the men-in-black get up, Jonah decided.

Keeping a careful distance, the agent lingered by the fridge and watched Jonah as if he expected an assault of some sort.

“Hey,” Jonah said and lifted his mug in salute.

“Hey,” the agent shot back. His voice was still hoarse and Jonah could see why. Above the collar of Jonah’s t-shirt, the agent’s throat was mottled with bruises, a lingering trace of the creature’s chokehold. The lump above his brow had turned dark purple, too, giving him the look of a prizefighter who’d gone ten rounds and lost. Much to Jonah’s relief, however, his face had regained a healthy color, his cheeks still a bit flushed with bed warmth.

“Coffee?” Jonah asked and placed his hand on a second mug.

The agent didn’t move and his expression remained unreadable. “Sure.”

He kept staring at Jonah’s face, not as intensely as last night, but with an unbroken concentration Jonah did his best to ignore. He did feel exposed, though, as if the agent tried to decipher an invisible message printed all over his skin.

“How do you feel?” Jonah asked, trying to shake his nervousness. He poured a mugful of coffee and handed it over to the agent. That seemed to put him at ease, at least to some extent. He wrapped his hand around the mug and snorted.

“Peachy.”

“You look like it.”

While Jonah plucked the bread out of the toaster, the agent circled around the kitchen table, his fingertips trailing over Jonah’s books. He picked up a copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ , turned it over in his hand.   

“You saved my ass last night,” he began.  

“Yeah, I’m not sure how that happened,” Jonah said. He placed a plate with buttered toast on the table, then offered up his hand. “I’m Jonah by the way.”

“Dean.”

They shook hands and the weird tension that had been building in the room finally faded. Jonah fetched what little provisions he had from the fridge and Dean sat down at the table, his left hand still cradling his coffee mug.

“So,” Jonah said. “You still don’t want to get yourself checked out?”

“No, it’s good,” Dean said. He sounded bemused, as if he hadn’t sorted out how he’d ended up at this table. “The poison wore off over night.”

His face had softened a little, making Jonah wonder how old he was. Not many years past thirty, he wagered. He sat down on the other chair, not quite sure what kind of protocol would be required in a situation like this. Should he ask about the creature outright? Or would that be too forward?

 _Excuse me, but did we in fact fight Godzilla in a polo shirt?_ In the end, Jonah decided to take a more indirect approach.

“It’s not much,” he said and gestured at the breakfast. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s good,” Dean contradicted. He reached for the toast but didn’t actually take any. “Last night,” he blurted. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t know who you are?”

Jonah dropped his gaze and folded his hands around his coffee. Should he make up a story? Chalk up his reply to shock and confusion? He tried it out in his head but it didn’t feel right to lie.

“I meant just that,” Jonah said. His throat constricted but he forced himself to go on regardless. “A couple of months ago I woke up in a reservoir a few miles outside of town. I couldn’t remember who I was or anything else. A man from town took me in and suggested the name.” He attempted a smile. “It’s from the bible.”

“How many months?” Dean demanded.

“Ten.” Jonah shot him a sideways glance, puzzled by the stricken tone of Dean’s voice.

“It never crossed your mind to find out what happened to you?” Dean asked, his face once more a shade paler than normal.

Jonah shrugged, licked the tip of his finger and blotted a few toast-crumbs off the table. “I figured my life couldn’t have been much good if it landed me in that lake,” he explained. “It seemed safer to start fresh.” Although part of him wanted to, he didn’t tell Dean about the nightmares. It scared him but for the first time in months he wondered if he was running and if so, from what. Questions seemed to hum on his lips, ready to slip free.

Jonah stared into his coffee and forced down the mix of panic and excitement that bubbled up from his chest. He might be able to trust Dean, but not right away. “It’s not that exciting,” Jonah concluded. “I’d say the lizard that walks like a man is the bigger mystery.”

Dean’s brows shot up and for a second he seemed honestly flustered. “Uhm,” he ventured and raised his coffee. “Monsters are real?”

“I figured as much,” Jonah quipped. At this, Dean’s mouth twitched into a smile and his eyes flashed with amusement over the rim of his mug. It was a look Jonah liked a lot.

He wanted to ask more, confirm what he suspected: That the creature in the park had been responsible for the missing teenagers. Most of all Jonah wanted to know if those kids were still alive but before he could ask, someone knocked loud and hard on the apartment’s door.

Reflex kicking in, Jonah was out of his chair and across the room before Dean had put down his coffee. He opened the door to the landing and found himself toe-to-toe with the second FBI agent, the tall one with the intelligent face. A face that, at the moment, seemed to be coming apart at the seams. Staring down at Jonah, the agent’s brows pulled up and his eyes widened. The hand he’d raised to knock on Jonah’s door still hung frozen in midair. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Dean barreled past Jonah and all but shoved his partner down the stairs.

“Dean, wait, no,” the tall guy protested but Dean herded him down the stairway, twisting his shirt with the same grip he’d used on Jonah the other night. He hissed something at his partner that Jonah didn’t catch and pushed him toward his car, a rundown, brown Buick. _What an ugly piece of metal_ , Jonah’s mind supplied while he watched the scene with growing confusion.

Once he’d forced his partner down onto the sidewalk, Dean climbed back up the stairs and stopped a few steps below Jonah’s landing.

“Hey, listen I…,” he broke off, his hand shooting up to his hair in a nervous gesture. “My partner, we need to get going. Wrap up the case.”

“Of course,” Jonah said although he didn’t understand anything that happened just then.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Dean promised. He bolted down the stairs and joined his partner by the car, clenching his fists as he went. For a moment, it looked like the second agent would head back to the apartment but Dean grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. He must’ve told him to get into the car because the taller agent moved around to the shotgun side, although not without throwing another look back over his shoulder. Taking a step out on the landing, Jonah watched the two men get into the Buick and drive off.

After last night, he’d thought things couldn’t get any stranger. Apparently he’d been wrong.

 

: : :

 

That day, the people who came into the _Hook & Sinker_ smiled as if they’d experienced a cherryblossom spring in the middle of December.

At 7 a.m. that morning, Maggie Bauer and Tim Wheeler had stumbled into the sheriff’s office and the good news had spread like a wildfire: Both children were fine. They’d had a terrible shock of course but except for a few bruises and scratches they’d come back unharmed.

The part about where they’d come back from wasn’t as transparent: Maisie said they’d been dragged off to an abandoned warehouse and kept prisoner for future ransom. Tripp insisted they’d been kidnapped by a psychopath.

“Who cares?” Brian demanded. “The important thing is they’re home.” He smiled, hovering his spoon over a bowl of carrot soup. “God, they’re _home.”_

“It’s a miracle, is what it is,” Maisie announced. She reached over the bar and squeezed Jonah’s hand.

“It is,” Jonah agreed and smiled at her. The café was so abuzz with good-natured folk, he’d lingered in the front after he’d finished his shift. Tamàs had taken over in the kitchen and Jonah heard him whistling through the hatch.

The town’s good mood was infectious and of course Jonah was glad that the boy and girl had been reunited with their families. Yet even so he couldn’t stop looking out the window front, searching the street for a brown Buick Riviera.

Before long, Brian caught him out. “What’s with you?” he asked. “Something on your mind?”

“No, I’m good,” Jonah said. He pulled his gaze away from the window and continued polishing drinking glasses. “Relieved.”

“Tell me about it.” Brian dipped his spoon into the soup but was too excited to eat. “You know how many people make it back from a kidnapping like that? Do you know how rare that is?”

He continued talking but Jonah had stopped listening, he couldn’t help it, his attention narrowing down to the door of the café and the man who’d just walked in.

Dean had taken off Jonah’s t-shirt but instead of switching back to a suit, he’d put on a pair of scuffed jeans and a dark blue button-down. He hadn’t bothered to shave, either, a day-old stubble shadowing his jaw. Once he’d caught sight of Jonah, he came up straight to the bar and stood beside Brian.

It took Brian a second or two to recognize Dean, then his face closed off. “Agent Smith.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied but his eyes never left Jonah’s face. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” Ignoring Maisie’s raised brow, Jonah put down his tea-towel and went around the bar. As an afterthought, he picked up a plate of that day’s apple pie and brought it along.

They picked a booth in the far corner of the café where a row of crowded tables shielded them from the bar. Jonah was aware that Brian was watching them, probably wondering what they might talk about. To tell the truth, Jonah was curious about Dean’s next words as well.

When Dean sat down on the bench across the table, Jonah shoved the pie toward him.

“Here,” he said. “To make up for the lousy breakfast.”

“You made that?”

“I am the cook.” Jonah shrugged. “So yes, I’m guilty of making pie.” It was a stupid joke, even to his own mind. His crooked attempt at humor must have baffled Dean, too, because he stared at his plate as if he’d never seen a pie in his life.

“You’re also guilty of being seriously not funny,” he finally said and met Jonah’s gaze.

“Point taken.”

He paused while Bethany walked by the table, her step faltering when she saw Jonah there. She shot Dean a curious look and moved on to the next booth.

“So why the hasty departure?” Jonah asked, suspecting his question was about as subtle as a brick to the head but for once unwilling to censure himself.

Dean stretched his arm out along the booth’s back rest and shrugged. “Like I said, my partner and I, we needed to wrap up the case.”

“You were the ones who found the children?”

“Sam did. He tracked them down while I went after the kidnapper.”

Sam. So Dean used his partner’s first name with a civilian he barely knew? Even Jonah could tell that was quaint. “And by kidnapper you mean the monster from the black lagoon?”

Dean cocked his head. “Something like that.”

Jonah wasn’t sure but it seemed like Dean was testing him, dropping hints and watching Jonah’s reaction. Whatever Dean waited for, Jonah doubted he would be able to deliver. He only observed that despite his bruises, Dean never winced nor did he move with special care, he seemed used to bumps and cuts and clawmarks on his shoulder.

Jonah let his gaze trail over Dean’s shirt, checking for tell-tale signs of the bandage he put under there. His scrutiny must’ve made Dean uncomfortable because his hand twitched to his injured shoulder. Dropping his gaze, Dean leaned forward with his elbow on the table and used the fork to break off a piece of pie.

“Apple,” he commented.

“You don’t like apple?” Jonah asked.

“No, it’s fine.” Dean speared a chunk of fruit with the fork and shook his head.  “A cook. What else can you make?”

“I’m pretty skilled at fileting blowfish.”

“Another joke?”

“Depends. Is it funny?”

“Barely.”

Jonah folded his hands on the table, bemused by Dean’s teasing and even more puzzled by his own interest, the curiosity he felt around someone he’d barely exchanged ten sentences with. It didn’t clarify matters any that Dean seemed to be just as fascinated, stealing glances at Jonah’s red t-shirt (bleached from being laundered too hot) and his hair (tousled from the baseball cap he wore in the kitchen). There was a curious tilt to his mouth that Jonah couldn’t decipher.

“Hey, I never asked,” Dean said suddenly. “Are you okay? That freak didn’t hurt you or anything?”

“No,” Jonah answered, thinking, _you’re the one who looks like a mess_. He thought back to the light of his bedside lamp, the way it had smoothed over Dean’s tired face and sweat matted hair. Even last night he’d barely been interested in the creature’s origins, he would have preferred an explanation for Dean, his exhaustion, why he fought monsters in the first place, and where he got his scars. He would have liked to know why watching Dean sleep was both the strangest and most pleasing experience in his ten month-old memory.

Jonah shot another glance at the bruises on Dean’s neck and this time caught a glimpse of a t-shirt under the collar of Dean’s button-down. A light blue t-shirt... with palmtrees on the front?  The discovery sparked a rush of heat in Jonah’s chest, the warmth creeping up to his face.

“Good,” Dean said and huffed. “That was some crazy shit you pulled last night.”

“Tackling a monster?”

“With a shoe. Yeah.”

The tone of his voice surprised Jonah because it sounded like Dean approved. Shouldn’t he put Jonah in his place, make him sign some confidentiality agreement? But then again, who would Jonah tell and who would believe him? Dean pushed the pie around his plate, crushing crumbs under his fork. Usually in a conversation Jonah let others take the lead, picking his replies with care. Dean gave him nothing, though. If Jonah wanted to keep the talk going, he had to keep prodding.

“Do you do this a lot?” Jonah asked.

“What? Hunting monsters?”

Jonah nodded.

“Kinda.” Dean chuckled but it sounded bitter enough Jonah wondered if his laughter always curdled around the edges.

“I didn’t know the FBI had a Frankenfish division,” he said.

“A…,” Dean echoed, perplexed. “Dude, what the hell have you been watching?”

“Lately?” Jonah asked and thought of Bethany’s birthday. “Romantic comedies. Mostly.”

It must’ve been another awkward answer because Dean eyed him as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or shake his head. “You’re weird.”

“I get that a lot,” Jonah agreed.

“Must be true then,” Dean said and broke into a real, entirely beautiful smile. It was absurd but Jonah knew, only by witnessing that smile that he wanted to kiss Dean, if only once. The impulse surprised him enough he didn’t check his eagerness to _know_ , the part of him that wanted to memorize Dean’s face, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the freckles dusted high on his cheeks, following each detail like a river on a map until no part of Dean was strange to Jonah anymore. Dean called to him, Jonah didn’t know how else to describe it. Most people ducked their heads when he stared too hard at them but Dean held his gaze, his eyes a startling green in the sunlight. There was something so fond in the way he looked at Jonah, it made him feel as if he’d just come home.

“Dean.” It was the first time Jonah had said Dean’s name and for some reason, it sobered Dean up faster than a slap of cold water to his face. Jonah frowned, alarmed by the quick change of Dean’s expression. For a second, Dean had seemed to relax, to open up to him. What had he done to mess that up? Desperately, Jonah tried to think of a way to ask what was wrong and in that moment he hated his inability to come up with the right words at the right time. Something had sparked between him and Dean, he hadn’t imagined that but now the brief, bright moment of connection evaporated and a strained silence settled in its place.

“Listen,” Dean finally said. “I never thanked you for helping me. For saving my life.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been fine without me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He tapped his thumb against the plate and it seemed he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. It struck Jonah that Dean was as much out of his depth as him but how could that be? Was there something going on here, some message that Dean kept trying to pass on and Jonah failed to catch?

Unconsciously, Jonah had begun to rub his left palm with his right thumb, a nervous tic he’d developed in the wake of his nightmares. Dean’s hands seemed equally restless, his fingers opening and closing around his fork.  

“Are you happy?” Dean asked. “I mean, do you like working at this place?”

“Yes?” Jonah replied, wondering what his job had to do with anything.

Dean nodded and sat up, straightening his back and tugging down his shirt. “That’s awesome.”

He sounded cheerful enough but his grin was fake, as far from the real deal as Mars was from Earth. Jonah felt a stab of panic because he sensed the distance growing between them and he didn’t know what had caused the split, or much less how to close it.

“The pie’s really good,” Dean added and put down his fork.

“Are you leaving?” Jonah asked. He couldn’t have hid his dismay even if he’d tried but if Dean noticed, he ignored it.

“Yeah,” he said. “We need to be on our way. No rest for the wicked and all that jazz.”

He stood up and Jonah followed suit, shaking Dean’s hand when he stuck it across the table for a goodbye.

“Promise you’ll take care of yourself,” Dean said. He tried to put warmth into the words but Jonah could tell Dean wanted to be out the door, that he would’ve run if it hadn’t looked weird.  

“I…,” Jonah began but Dean cut him off.

“Yeah, all right.” He patted Jonah’s arm and slid out of the booth. “Thanks, again. I mean it.”

He was out of the café so quickly it was obvious he didn’t want to give Jonah a chance to come after him.

For a second or two, Jonah almost followed him anyway. The conversation he just had rapidly felt unreal, he couldn’t be more confused if it he’d been Alice on the far side of the rabbit hole. In fact, things had stopped making sense the moment he’d met Dean and yet for some reason watching him walk out the door crushed the air from Jonah’s lungs.

In the end, Jonah sat back down and pulled the pie toward him, stacking Dean’s fork on the side of the plate. He wished he knew why he was so upset. Usually he imagined his emotional landscape as a wall with all the important cues written on it. There was _sadness_ printed in small letters, _concern_ , _contentment_. With Dean, though, the wall was a mess, the words running like wet paint and fading into the plaster. The one insight Jonah had carried away from their meeting was as bizarre as the discovery that there could be actual monsters in his closet.

Jonah didn’t know Dean from Adam, the only real information he had about him was that he knew where to stick a knife in order to kill something. If Jonah had been in his right mind, he’d be wary of him but instead he cared for Dean so strongly he wouldn’t mind waking up next to him for the rest of his days. He didn’t know how that was possible. Nor did he understand why Dean had claimed he liked the pie. He hadn’t tried a single bite.

 

: : :

 

After Dean left, Jonah didn’t feel like rejoining Maisie and the others. He slipped into the kitchen to dispose of the pie Dean hadn’t touched and asked Tamàs if he could borrow Sal. Jonah didn’t know why, but he took Sally to Kelley Park, went a full round with her before they ended up on a bench near the picnic lawn.

The place was so different during the day. Children tumbled over the grass while two older kids tossed a Frisbee around. A woman had spread a blanket under the large cedar tree and read a book in the tree’s shadow.

Jonah watched the picnic area with his hand on Sal’s back, rubbing slow circles into her fur. The old dog had stretched out on the bench and dozed with her head on Jonah’s thigh. He tried to reconcile the scenery before him with the fight he’d fought here and couldn’t. He felt like he stood at a crossroad: He could either hold on to the memory of last night, turn it over and over until it drove him crazy or he could let it go, tag it as an anomaly and be at peace.

As the light faded and the day’s warmth leaked from the air, Jonah closed his eyes and remembered Dean’s shirt, its stark white blaze and how it stood out against the black cedar like the tip of a pale wing.

 

: : :

 

The sun was about to set when Jonah dropped Sal off at the café and turned for home. As he made his way down the thoroughfare, he checked the side of the street for the brown Buick but didn’t think he’d catch sight of it. Back at the café’s kitchen, he’d called the places that rented out rooms in Cedar Springs, going through the Yellow Pages until the Town House receptionist told him two Feds had checked out three hours ago. If Dean and his partner hadn’t stopped for dinner they would be a hundred miles down the interstate by now.

They hadn’t left a number at the hotel desk but Jonah figured the police would know how to contact them. Jonah had no idea what he would say to Sheriff Gardener or to Dean if he should reach him. He only knew that he wanted to talk to him one more time.

And if he didn’t reach Dean? Would Jonah catch a ride to Washington, DC and wait on the steps of the FBI headquarters?

The idea didn’t sound as ridiculous as it should.

There was a backpack in Jonah’s closet he hardly used. It would fit a few clothes and a Greyhound timetable, everything he needed to get on the way. In all the months he’d been here, it had never occurred to him to leave Cedar Springs and even now he couldn’t quite imagine how it would be, as if the town was surrounded by a belt of nothing, a barrier he wouldn’t have the courage to break. Yet every time he was about to loose heart he recalled some random detail of the past twenty-four hours, his bedside lamp knocked over to its side, the hot water of the shower running down his bruised back, the way Dean’s hand curled around the coffee mug in the morning.

Somewhere in between these snapshots Jonah had been supposed to do something. He didn’t know what, he didn’t know how he knew and if he had to wrestle with one more riddle he’d smash something.

His shadow preceded him on the sidewalk, stretching longer as the sun inched toward the horizon. A full night of sleep, perhaps that was all he needed. Jonah went past the garage, rounded the corner of the house and pulled his keys from his pocket. He was four steps up the stairway before he looked up and saw Dean waiting on the landing.

 

: : :

 

If Jonah’s mind had been running full tilt before it now went completely blank.

Dean stood with one hand on the railing, his back turned to the street. With his sneakers thumping on the metal stairs, Jonah hadn’t exactly been quiet but when he climbed another two steps, Dean flinched as if he’d only then noticed him coming. He looked around and withdrew to the far corner of the landing as Jonah reached the top.

Jonah took a step in Dean’s direction, opened his mouth but it seemed his voice had packed up and gone. In the end he turned wordlessly to unlock his apartment and push open the door. He cleared his throat, well aware of Dean watching his every move.

“Come in.” Jonah moved into his kitchen, half-hoping he’d come back to his senses once he made it to familiar ground. That morning, he’d pulled the curtains to block out the day’s heat but the room was still stuffy, the air thick with shadows and the ghost-smell of coffee. Going in, it felt a little like walking into a cul de sac.

Dean followed Jonah inside, his whole body screaming tension. He’d been wound tight in the same way last night, right around the time he’d slammed Jonah into the bedside locker. It made Jonah wonder where Dean’s anger came from and why it was directed at him.

It also made his stomach flip in an entirely inappropriate manner.

“I thought you had to leave,” Jonah said just to say _something_.

Dean let out a frustrated huff and scrubbed his hand over his face. Jonah half expected him to turn on his heels but to his surprise, Dean walked right up to him and clasped his shoulders. The keys slipped from Jonah’s palm to his fingertips but before he had the chance to catch up, Dean stepped between his feet and leaned his forehead against Jonah’s, leaving not even a fingerbreadth of space between them. Jonah’s keys hit the floor before he realized his hands had opened.

“Fuck this,” Dean rasped. “Not this time.” Twisting the sleeves of Jonah’s t-shirt in his fists,  he swallowed hard enough a muscle jumped in his cheek. Without thinking Jonah lifted a hand and touched his fingertips to Dean’s jawline, stunned by the despair in Dean’s voice. Dean closed his eyes, his mouth twitching before he pinched it into a tight line.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he breathed. He hooked an arm around Jonah’s neck and wrapped the other around his back.

“What are you doing?” Jonah asked, his heartbeat thumping faster. Dean pulled him in until they stood chest to chest, thighs touching, and even then Dean’s arms tightened around his shoulders some more.

Confused, caught off guard, Jonah settled his hands on Dean’s hips only to dig his nails into Dean’s belt when Dean’s cheek rasped against his. Jonah breathed in, inhaling a faint trace of whiskey and the warm, clean scent of Dean’s skin underneath. Instinctively, Jonah turned his face into the curve of Dean’s neck, brushing the tip of his nose against the soft skin beneath Dean’s ear.

At his touch, Dean hunched his shoulders and gripped the back of Jonah’s collar. “Tell me it’s you.”

Jonah flinched like he’d been slapped, his eyes opening wide in surprise. “Do you know me?”

He took hold of Dean’s shoulders, meaning to shove him away so Jonah could look at him. Dean lifted his head when Jonah pushed but at the same time he fit his palm to Jonah’s cheek and gently turned his face. Before Jonah knew what was happening, Dean kissed him, the touch of his mouth so light it was barely there.

Careful as the kiss was it hit Jonah like a gunshot, his breath catching in his throat a millisecond before his heart stopped and burst into a flock of birds. He could even hear the flutter of wings, or maybe that was just the rush of blood in his ears.

With Dean’s hand warm against the side of his face, Jonah went very still, feeling something start deep inside him, a landslide or a flood, he didn’t know. Suddenly the silence in his kitchen seemed deeper and the evening shadows rippled with a breeze,

Jonah closed his eyes and moved his hand to the side of Dean’s throat. He could feel Dean’s chest hitch, felt his mouth opening a little as he drew a breath. When Jonah tilted his head, brushing his mouth softly against Dean’s, Dean dropped his hand and gripped Jonah’s shoulder. 

They kissed slow at first, Jonah’s fingertips following the stubble beneath Dean’s jaw until Dean licked into his mouth and Jonah squeezed the nape of Dean’s neck. Only when they started pulling at each other’s clothes did Dean try to back away.

“No,” he mumbled. “No, God, we don’t, we never…”

He stepped on Jonah’s toes in a frantic effort to disentangle himself but Jonah caught him around the waist and kissed him again, scared that Dean would slip through his fingers like he had back at the café. He needed this, needed Dean like he needed nothing else. He couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t give into the rush. He pulled Dean with him across the kitchen, kicked the front door shut with his heel and spun them around.

Even as Dean’s back hit the door he reached for Jonah again, one hand slipping under Jonah’s t-shirt, the other sliding around his back and up to his shoulder. Jonah got a good grip of Dean’s short hair, tilting his head and catching the lower swell of Dean’s mouth between his teeth.

Dean made a desperate little sound and clutched at Jonah’s back, fingers digging into muscles that were still sore from Jonah’s fall. It hurt but even that was welcome, each sensation sharp and immediate, like crashing waves. All he could think was he wanted more of Dean, wanted him all the way, this battered, beat-up person with his skittish body and hard hands. How could he be so hungry for a touch he hadn’t even imagined until then? How could he be so afraid of losing something that hadn’t even begun?

“Don’t go,” Jonah gasped and Dean’s gaze snapped up to meet his, his pupils wide and dark.

“Don’t,” Jonah repeated and for a moment, Dean stared at him like he had in the café, startled and unsure, as if Jonah caught him by surprise. He raised his hand to Jonah’s face, hesitated and reached around instead, curling his fingers against the back of Jonah’s head.

Jonah closed his eyes and said it a third time. “Don’t.”

When Dean spread his legs, Jonah eased between them and pinned Dean with his weight, feeling Dean’s chest swell and fall with ragged breaths, feeling his own lungs squeeze and contract. Overwhelmed, he rested his forehead against the door just beside Dean’s temple, every part of him soaking up, struggling to accommodate the feel of Dean pressed against him.

They remained like this for the space of a few seconds, then Dean ground down against Jonah’s thigh, his cock already hard. He let out a soft grunt and Jonah turned to kiss the curve of his cheekbone, licking the faint taste of salt off his skin. They moved into a hesitant rhythm, Dean rubbing against him and Jonah pushing back, his own dick twitching with every rasp of denim on denim.

Fumbling for Dean’s shirt, Jonah worked the buttons free off their holes until he’d opened the shirttails and revealed Jonah’s palmtree t-shirt worn underneath like a secret. Silly to get excited about Dean wearing his clothes, but heat pooled in Jonah’s belly and sank right down into his cock all the same. Jonah pressed his palm flat against Dean’s chest where he knew the tattoo was and the small, halfmoon scar. He rubbed his thumb over Dean’s nipple through the cotton, shivering when Dean arched into his touch.

“Shit,” Dean murmured, wetting his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He got a hold of the hem of Jonah’s t-shirt and pulled it off over Jonah’s head, running his hands over Jonah’s bare sides, continuing the grind and push of crotch before he grabbed the back of Jonah’s thigh just beneath his ass to get more friction. Jonah leaned into him, his muscles humming and tension building in the small of his back. Each time his cock bumped against Dean’s hip, pleasure rocked through him in shockwaves. He tried to take a step back, to slow down before he went under, and failed.

Jonah kissed Dean again, drinking in the taste of Johnny Walker and savoring the slide of Dean’s tongue over his. It was crazy, this kind of intensity, it frightened him just as it made him long for more. When they came up for air, Dean groaned and tipped his head back against the door. His fingers clenched into Jonah’s thigh. “Please,” he muttered. “Please, please.”

Dean’s urgency snapped the last few threads of Jonah’s self-control and he went with the first thing that came to mind, opened the top of Dean’s jeans one-handed and slid his hand inside, closing his fingers around Dean’s cock. Dean’s hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice.

A drop of sweat trickled down between Jonah’s shoulder-blades as he jerked Dean off, starting out with slow strokes and speeding up fast. Dean tried to stay still, pushing his shoulders back against the door, but his hips jittered into Jonah’s fist and his eyes lost their focus before he squeezed them shut. A few more strokes, a twist of Jonah’s hand, and Dean’s whole body strained and shuddered with his release.

The harsh sound Dean made then, way back in his throat, sent liquid heat up Jonah’s spine.

His palm sleek with Dean’s come, Jonah leaned in to bite Dean’s jaw and felt a muscle twitch against the tip of his tongue. He stroked Dean through the aftershocks until he couldn’t take it anymore, his own need blinding white and painful. He flipped the button of his jeans open but Dean captured his hand with his and stalled him. By then Jonah was so worked up, he actually tried to bat Dean’s hand away just so he could take care of himself. He wasn’t prepared at all when Dean pushed him off and switched them around.

It happened fast, Dean dropping to his knees in front of Jonah, his hands on Jonah’s hips in one moment, opening the zipper of his jeans in the next. Suddenly Jonah couldn’t breathe at all and when Dean’s mouth closed around his dick, swirling his tongue around the head, Jonah cried out in a voice that didn’t sound like his own at all. The muscles in his stomach clenched and relaxed in spurts, his hand fumbled for a hold on the nearest kitchen sideboard and yes, it happened _fast_.

Jonah couldn’t even remember much of how it felt afterward, only the snap of tension, the bright rush of bliss and another sweep of Dean’s tongue. He slumped against the door, breathing like he’d run for miles, breathing like he’d just broken free of the lake. God, he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known how numb he’d been, how he’d walked around with all his senses clouded. 

Slowly, Jonah became aware of the kitchen again, the curtains’ shadows on the hanging cupboards and the hum of the fridge. The sound seemed loud and close, skittering over Jonah’s skin. Jonah swallowed thickly. He tried to relax but his body felt too alert and alien, like it wasn’t even his anymore.

All that time, Dean stayed on his knees, his forehead resting against Jonah’s thigh, his shoulders heaving. Giving into the weakness in his legs, Jonah slid down to the floor and wrapped himself around Dean, enfolding him with knees and arms. Without a word, Dean slung an arm around Jonah’s waist and curled into his embrace.

Staring at his ceiling, Jonah still felt clear, lucid, like he stood under an open sky and saw for miles. His walls had opened wide up and before he had a chance to stop it, Jonah remembered the gravity of the lake and the darkness dragging him down, black water rushing into his mouth and into his blood. Panic churned in his chest again and woke his fear of drowning, the black core of all his nightmares.

Jonah clenched his arms around Dean and held on for dear life. He bunched his fists into Dean’s shirt and buried his face into the hollow of Dean’s neck, listening to the harsh echoes of his own breath. As the seconds ticked by, Jonah’s terror slowly lost its edge, leaving the weight of Dean’s body on top of him and the bunched-up folds of his shirt in his fists. Jonah smelled the trace of sweat and sex on Dean and the scent of his shirt, the flannel clean but a bit musty, as if it had traveled around in a bag for a while. The scent made Jonah think of fields on the roadside and white clouds, images he couldn’t place but took comfort in, grasping for the sense of safety they provided.

Dean was still breathing hard, his back shaking, so Jonah kissed the side of his neck and ran a thumb along the edge of Dean’s shoulder-blade. Dean tightened his arm around Jonah’s waist and Jonah’s pulse jumped beneath his jaw.

“I can’t do this anymore, Cas,” Dean said, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Cas?” Jonah whispered but Dean didn’t answer, he just kissed Jonah’s naked shoulder.

Throat constricting, Jonah opened his legs and gathered Dean closer. They stayed that way, wedged in the nook between the door and the kitchen cabinets for a long time.

 

: : :

 

Morning came and he woke up in bed to the rattle of a roll-up door on the street. A window had to be open somewhere because the cool air shifted on his shoulders. What door, though? What window?

Opening his eyes, he looked at a small bedroom, cluttered with books and pictures that needed to be put on walls. The furniture seemed to be second-hand, a floor lamp with a linen shade and a reading chair topped with faded red upholstery.

He didn’t recognize any of it not the bedspread, not his own hand, had no idea who he was or where.

Panic sparked in his belly like a snapped live wire and his whole body flinched with the shock. His name, what was his name, what—

He’d clenched his muscles to bolt out of bed when a hand settled on his shoulder and stalled him.

“Hey.”

One word, but it calmed his racing heart instantly. The voice was quiet and thick with sleep, close enough the speaker’s breath brushed over his back. Warm and firm, the hand on his shoulder held him steady until he settled back down. Turning his face into the pillow, he breathed in the cotton-scent of the pillow-case, closed his eyes and remembered his name, at once and without effort, as if he’d never lost it.

 

_end_

_______________

_beta by auburn & eretria_

_(18/03/12)  
_

 


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